


Permitted to Leave

by crabmoney3



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Minific, Swearing, The Hall, debted, election
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 19:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabmoney3/pseuds/crabmoney3
Summary: It is time for the season 13 election. The Monitor couldn't care less about Tillman Henderson, and gives him a choice. It is up to Tillman to decide whether he stays on he surface or returns to the trench.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Permitted to Leave

**Author's Note:**

> lol this happened like an hour ago and while this is dramatic i simply think it is hilarious that tillman is no longer permitted to stay

Permitted to Leave

By crabmoney3

“What do you mean I have to go back?”

The Monitor says nothing. He hovers in front of Tillman, the countdown to the election growing smaller and smaller.

“Fuck that shit, there’s no way you’re getting me to go back.” Tillman could walk away now. He knows he could. The Monitor doesn’t want him to go back to the trench. Tillman knows the Monitor is just waiting for him to do anything, to give him any excuse to leave the pitcher on the surface. So why doesn’t he?

The gigantic squid looms over Tillman, the timer still ticking away. The creature stares blankly at Henderson, waiting.

“Why would I go back there? People love me up here. I’m fucking king shit and also these losers look up to me. Why would I die again and go back with also those failures who couldn’t get their shit together?”

But still he doesn’t move.

The Monitor is growing impatient.

_Then why are you still here?_ he asks. _No one’s stopping you from running away._

Tillman turns back over his shoulder. He looks at the Shoe Thieves in the distance. It would take him maybe two minutes to rejoin them. He thinks about it. He thinks about the cheers—the fame, or the infamy depending on who you ask. It could still be his.

_You don’t want this, do you?_ the Monitor says.

“What? Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I want this?”

But the Monitor is right. It’s not what he wants. But is going back to the Hall the answer? Does he want to go through that again? The emptiness, the hollow feeling in his chest, just waiting for something more to happen even though that something may never come? He shudders at the thought.

_Time’s almost up, buddy._

“Yeah I can fucking read numbers, thanks,” Tillman snaps.

_Wasn’t sure._

It would be easy to stay with the Thieves. But ever since he woke up in Choux Stadium, he’s felt just off center of himself, his insides three degrees left of where they should be. The whole time he’s been back something has been wrong, and no matter how many people cheer, Tillman never feels like it’s for him, not really. Maybe it’s for an idea of him. Maybe it’s for what’s happened to him. But he’s burned so many bridges, he’s tried to remake himself so many times but it’s always in his own image, like some shitty Dorian Gray copy of someone who wasn’t charming and loved to begin with.

Maybe the Monitor’s right.

Maybe Tillman does have to go back.

_I don’t have all the time in the world, here. New job. Gotta go sell snacks._

“Okay,” Tillman says. “I’ll go back.”

_Seriously?_

“Yeah no shit, seriously. Let’s just go before I change my fucking mind and decide to stay in this shithole.”

_Your funeral._

“Yeah, it is.”

The Monitor opens the path to the Hall. Tillman takes a deep breath, the last one he will until who knows when. It’s one of the first days of spring, the air clean in his lungs. He starts making his way down the corridor. His vision blurs white and blue like the walls around him. He sees a shadow moving past him in the other direction, towards the fading surface.

“Hey, you, fucko, whoever you are,” he calls. The shadow stops. “It’s not worth it. Trust me.”

The shadow hesitates, takes another step, and pauses. Tillman doesn’t look back to see what they do. He feels his arms go cold as the blood in his veins freeze, and plunges into the water below. It doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t feel any worse than he did on the surface. He hears the election timer go off in the distance, muffled beneath the waves of the Hall. The doorway closes behind him.

Tillman Henderson has not permitted himself to stay.


End file.
